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The flight looked to be ordinary and boring, until the werewolves came on board.

Two of them, slumped down to avoid hitting their heads on the roof of the cabin, did their best to shuffle down aisles built for slim, ordinary humans, many of whom were looking at the werewolves with expressions varying from fear to disgust, most appearing merely annoyed and inconvenienced. The lycan with the dark brown fur found his seats first, motioning diplomatically to the human cowering in the window seat. As required by airline regulations, the wolf had purchased two seats, the better to accommodate his shifted size. He was shifted because the law of the land told him that he had to be, in order to fly, and he did his best to retain his dignity despite the poor reception he was being given.

“Why can't they leave us alone?" grumbled a passenger across the aisle from me. Catching my glance, he continued, “I mean, why do they have to fly?"

“Why don't you ask them?"

The shocked expression on his face told me that he thought my reasonable suggestion was anything but. He returned his gaze to the front of the cabin, and his expression become more fearful than angry. The second werewolf, mostly white-furred, with milk- and dark-chocolate brown fur like a mantle around his head and shoulders, was nearly even with us. The look in his yellow-gold eyes was one of apprehension, perhaps even downright fear, and he looked at the seat row diagram near the overhead compartments, then cast a frightened glance at me.

“Are you in this row?" I asked, offering a smile.

“I think so."

“Would you prefer the inside seats, or would you like the aisle seat? I can move over, if you'd like."

The lycan appeared more startled than anything else. “Umm… may I have…?"

“Certainly. Let me move into the aisle for a moment."

I rose, raising the armrest between the two outboard seats, giving him room to ladle himself as best he could into the space. I had no carry-on to move, and he gratefully found room for his large hindpaws underneath the two seats in front of him, his small carry-on able to fit well enough next to one paw. He moved and shuffled, trying to figure how much of his bum he could fit into one seat, the rest of it having to deal with the extremely uncomfortable sensation of “riding the rail," the metal support between the seats. He had pulled his tail around to his left, closer to the window, to give me more room to be in my own seat. I sat and buckled myself in, nodding to him, letting him take his time getting settled. It was a comparatively short flight, and we would be taking off soon enough. He wouldn't have to be uncomfortable for too long.

Ever since some number of werewolves had made the difficult decision to let their existence be known openly, lycans in general have been persecuted in any number of ways. “Humans," the term by which the majority of those who are not werewolves call themselves (conveniently forgetting that werewolves, too, are humans who also have the ability to shift into another form), allowed themselves to remember the myths about wolves, and therefore the myths about werewolves, and lycanthropes were universally declared terrorists, capable of destroying “normal" humans as a race, infecting the population, endangering the human way of life, and probably causing everything from rigged elections to tooth decay. Having long since given up all hope for the human race in general, I tried my best to ignore the prejudicial pandemonium and hoped against hope for the best outcome, whatever it turned out to be.

This sort of irrational overreaction is cyclical in nature. There was a time when being a Protestant was a shocking, if not unforgivable, admission; in England, conversely, being Catholic meant being untrustworthy and unworthy of or unfit for public office, for fear of being under the control of the Papacy. As time went on, humans had to invent more and more things to quarrel over, to get upset about, to prove their own sub-group as being somehow superior to another. The lycanthropes were just the newest thing to scream about, and the various prejudicial voices in the fight were loud enough to drown out any civilized discussion or understanding. I had every confidence that, if there really were other “supernatural" or “unnatural" creatures out there (vampires sprang to mind), the hue and cry would only amplify.

“Thank you," the werewolf said softly to me. He still appeared nervous, not as calm as his… okay, I'll make the joke, “comrade under the fur." He did his best to look through the window, but his size while shifted prevented him from doing it all that well. Trying to look through other windows brought frowns from passengers near those windows who simply couldn't help demonstrating just how much he wasn't wanted here (or anywhere else, for that matter).

“Is this the first time you've flown since the restrictions?"

“First time, full stop. Never had cause to until now."

“It must be important."

“Funeral."

The usual litany of expressions of compassion flitted through my mind. I chose a slightly different approach. “A lousy reason for your first travel by plane."

He acknowledged it with a rueful expression.

“You must be needed there in a hurry."

Pausing for a long moment, he said only, “Reasons."

“I apologize," I said. “I didn't mean to pry."

The startled look on his face was replaced, slowly, by the appearance of relief for not having to be (as he probably saw it) grilled any further. I returned my gaze to the various other passengers who were finishing up the boarding, every one of them glancing toward the two largest fliers in the cabin. Again, the expressions ranged from fear to disgust, annoyed to inconvenienced. Science had proven that werewolf fur differed from domestic animals' fur, that it was as near to hypoallergenic as made no odds, but some people still sneeze in their presence. Some complained that severely allergic fliers could die from anaphylactic shock; this, of course, would bar werewolves from air travel entirely. The ACLU stepped in, along with a few groups whose positions could be reduced to “because science," and the argument now raged only on certain “news" stations and social media geared toward misinformation of all kinds. (My favorite tidbit was that werewolves may be able to shift at any time, but what about flying with a shifted werewolf during a full moon? Wasn't that twice as dangerous?)

My traveling companion started at the sound and sensation of the cabin door closing. Most of us can feel the change in air pressure when the hatch is sealed, and the comparative quiet caused by shutting off the noise from outside is sometimes surprising. I was aware of the heightened senses of werewolves, so I had the idea that the worry regarding this sensation might be heightened as well.

“How much do you know about air travel?"

The lycan frowned at me, a slight curl to his lip. “I'm not stupid."

“I'm sure you're not. Experience can be different from what you may have heard."

His yellow-gold eyes regarded me closely, his gaze softening a little. “I don't scare easy."

“That's a lie, my friend. There's always something that scares us, whether it's rational or not. Me, I get scared when someone points a gun in my face."

“That happen often?"

“These days?"

After a long moment, he nodded, sadly. “Okay. So maybe I'm a little scared of being hauled up into the air inside a fat metal cigar with wings that don't flap."

“Sensible attitude." I smiled softly at him. “Maybe I can help."

“Maybe I don't want—"

“Excuse me, sir."

He and I both raised our eyes to the stewardess who had somewhat icily addressed him. Her face was professionally neutral, which told me a lot about her. She also wore, against regs, a tiny amount of perfume that most people probably wouldn't have noticed. In her hand, she held a seat belt extension.

“I need you to buckle in now."

“My friend hasn't flown before," I smiled at her, reaching up for the extension. “I'll show him how it works."

“Of course," she said, just short of perfunctorily. Handing me the belt, she proceeded up the aisle to prepare for the roll-out and safety briefing.

I turned to the werewolf, helping him to fit everything together and to find the receptacle for the far end of the belt, nearly hidden from him because of his size. “The plane will begin to move soon. Be ready."

“Why?"

“Because you're going to realize that you're really going up in the air soon, and you're likely to get a short jolt of adrenaline."

“That's crazy."

It's a truth of physics that setting something in motion requires more (to use the technical term) oomph than keeping it in motion. The pilot of this metal beast was skillful enough to ease some 79 metric tons of aircraft into reverse with very little hesitation. As I expected, my companion jumped, just a bit. I remembered the feeling from my own first flight, so many years ago now, and I've had it confirmed by many first-time fliers. He tried to deny it, making a small show of stretching in place, but we both knew that I wasn't fooled. I offered a hand to him.

“Jason," I introduced myself.

He took my hand gently but firmly in a forepaw perhaps twice the size of my own hand. “Monte. No relation to Hall."

I smiled as I squeezed his forepaw rather than shaking it. “That line sounds practiced."

“An icebreaker, I admit, for those who might still remember him." He released my hand slowly, not quite reluctantly. His eyes told me that he was hoping to break more ice and wasn't sure how to do it.

“A lot is going to happen quickly, at first."

Happily, he took the hint, smiling a little. “Prep me, coach."

I outlined the next steps for him, probably better than the descriptive folder “in the seat pocket in front of you," which I knew of old. By the time another of the stewardesses called everyone's attention to the front, he was prepared to hear The Speech, realizing just how many things could go wrong. As we taxied out to the runway, I quickly reviewed everything with him, reminding him that it was a rare flight when anything happened that necessitated the use of these various safety features.

“How many flights have you taken?" he asked me.

“I've truly lost count." I looked upward as the captain's voice came over the speakers. “It's the take-off moment, Monte. Acceleration and upward climb, okay?"

“Got it."

He settled himself back into his seats as best he could. I hoped that the pilot's previously-noted skill extended to the take-off. Taking a cue from the lycan's body language, I rolled my hand over, palm upward. He noticed, looking away from me as he took my hand. I interlaced my fingers with his, feeling the fur there, the slightest shake of uncertainty. The acceleration began, and he squeezed my hand, carefully, well aware of his own strength when shifted. I wasn't afraid of the powerful grip, and I squeezed back.

The takeoff was smoother than most, only a small bump, created when the plane's lift hesitated slightly. Monte jerked a little in his seat, and I squeezed his fingers quickly in reassurance. He let himself relax into the sensations of acceleration, the push of slightly increased gravity, the sense of lifting, ultimately leveling off. I'd warned him about the air pressure making his ears pop; the ear anatomy of a shifted werewolf was similar to lupine and canine ear structures, which (here's a surprise) is like humans, in that there is still an eardrum that is sensitive to pressure changes. The downside is that, for lycans, chewing gum doesn't really help. For that matter, it doesn't seem to work for many humans either.

He had released my hand when the flight felt calm, long before a stewardess came down the aisle with the drinks trolley. For shifted werewolves, it was probably just as well that so many domestic flights don't serve food anymore. There was little to no room to bring down the tray table in front of him, and bringing down the one in the middle still would be awkward for him. further, the size of a shifted werewolf's forepaws made using utensils or grasping cups difficult at best. He certainly couldn't bring on his own utensils, as they would be confiscated at the airport as weapons. Bottled water was the best option; we each took one.

We struck up a bantering conversation, little tidbits of nothing in particular. His “day job," at present, was essentially consecutive temporary assignments in clerical areas, some amounting to something close to executive assistant-level work. He was a Registered Nurse, fully certified, and he kept up his credentials. Human ignorance left him fewer opportunities when he was outed by rumor; when he was proven to be a werewolf, his opportunities shrank to zero.

The story was a genuine tragedy. He had been tending a cardiac care patient, at the patient's home, when the man demonstrated all the symptoms of another heart attack. Ambulances were tied up with a twelve-car pile-up on the Interstate. Monte checked the patient, made sure he was stable enough to be moved, then made the choice to save a life. He shifted, picked up the suffering man, and carried him to the hospital. His strength and stride were well up to the task; even given his care to run digitigrade and as bump-free as possible, he covered the mile-and-a-half in less than ten minutes. He burst into the ER, calling out the status of his patient in medical shorthand, identifying himself as an RN in order to be taken seriously by the other medicos. Setting the man down on the gurney, the lycan shifted back to human form, if only so that his size wouldn't get in the way of the critical care team that had assembled to treat the patient.

Monte's actions saved the man's life. Upon hearing about it, the cardiologist who cared for the man praised his bravery, putting the patient's safety ahead of his own. That night at the ER, only one human called him a spawn of Satan, and the few human children there didn't start screaming until their parents did. Official records reported how the man had been brought to the ER, as required by law, but no name was mentioned. The poison leached in from others who were there, and it was soon common knowledge that Monte was a werewolf. He felt no shame, knew that what he had done was right. For that matter, even prejudicial humans didn't argue that point. It was more the ignorant, baseless fear of what even an unshifted werewolf might do, culling the human herd of the old and infirm, which would be all too easy to do from the trusted position of a nurse.

When describing my own work, I glossed over my credentials, joking that I was the equivalent of a car mechanic except with mainframe computer systems for certain corporations (no names; discretion, you know). Tinkering with the guts of those beasts is not a subject that makes fascinating conversation; to spare my furry companion, I didn't elaborate on the subject. It did explain why I was flying so often, why it was so second-nature to me. Monte thanked me, discreetly, for helping him through the flight, for treating him kindly. I explained that, too, was second-nature to me.

“I guess you could call it something religious," he said after a pause.

“The funeral?"

“Yeah." He swallowed, the need to talk pushing through his mental and emotional boundaries. “Not religion, either. The speed of the funeral. I think Jews bury their own quickly, if I'm not stereotyping or something, but it's not that. It's more somewhere between family and spirituality, I guess."

“Is it related to your being a werewolf?"

He nodded. “Not some deep dark secret or anything, it's just… personal. We use the word 'clan' rather than 'pack,' with most people. There's a deep feeling of bonding in the word 'pack,' but for most people, it brings up associations with all the worst stories of wolf behavior, as if we all turn feral when we shift. Not just feral but dangerous."

Another long pause before he let himself speak again. “Her name was Glysona."

“Unusual name."

“We never knew the origin of the name; probably something Nordic, we guessed. Even she wasn't sure. Her mother gave her the name. Glysona wasn't even a year old when her mother died. The foster parents honored the birth mother by keeping the given name, although they did give her their surname — Bowman. The unusual name gave her some trouble in school, so the Bowmans told her that the name came from a great-grandmother, and that family history didn't record the origin or meaning of the name. Glysona faced up to her tormentors by making up a grand story about her great-grandmother, how she was rumored to have royal blood, although that was never proved. She never went too far with it, to the point that she would be challenged to prove her claims. It was her family history, she said, and she could only tell what she knew."

“Clever girl."

“I always thought so."

Questions in my mind showed their heels to my manners. “Were the foster parents werewolves, too?"

He shook his head. “Contrary to popular belief, we don't have covert networks everywhere. The foster system worked the way it's supposed to, for a change, finding a good home for Glysona's general needs. The Bowmans were wonderful people. They told her about her adoption when she turned 18. They also told her that her name was given to her by her birth mother, although they still didn't know what it meant or where it came from. Glysona actually thanked them for the other background story, as it gave her something to hang on to, to believe in.

“None of her mother's clan — my clan — was able to adopt her, but they kept tabs on her as best they could. They couldn't contact her until she was 18."

I frowned. “I wouldn't think that was in the law."

“Our law," Monte said softly. “We don't want to interfere with families and child-rearing, particularly if it's outside of our clans. As I said, it's not like everyone knows everyone else." He paused again. “Glysona came of age before the whole home DNA testing thing kicked in. We've been lucky so far, in that none of those tests seem to factor for lycanthropy."

“There's talk of looking for it and including it."

Monte's entire facial expression radiated a sorrow so deep that I felt swallowed up by it. “One more level of persecution."

“I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. I wondered if any of the humans sitting near us were listening to this story. I would not have been surprised to know that it wouldn't have changed their minds one bit. They can't seem to understand why “normal" folk should be bothered about such things. I believe that I already mentioned having given up all hope for the human race; this sort of thing was just another nail in that coffin.

“At least Glysona found her family."

The lycan sniffed a little, perhaps to hold back a tear. “Yes, ultimately. We reached out to her, explained things. This was before the laws and restrictions, so it was a tricky thing, to tell someone that she is… something else. Far better to do that, to help guide her through her first shifting, rather than having it happen spontaneously, perhaps triggered by some traumatic event. She was strong, learned quickly, and welcomed the clan as we welcomed her.

“My clan was very lucky to have her back. She served time in the military, then later as a firefighter. You remember the Camp Fire in California, back in '18? Some called it the Paradise Fire, because that was the town where it started. Glysona was on the front lines there. A little over two weeks. No one asked how she was able to keep going on so little sleep, how she wasn't so badly affected by the smoke and heat."

“Was she shifted?"

“No. It would have been too dangerous, and not just because of the fires." He smiled ruefully. “You think it's tough to fit all of me into this airplane? Try firefighting protective gear."

“Good point." I paused before asking, “How did she die?"

“By the simple stupidity of fate, more than anything else. Some idiot decided to run his car through a crowd of people, for some political idealism or other. Glysona was trying to get out of the way when the car skidded sideways and broadsided her, pinning her against the side of a building." He ducked his head, pretending to look out of his window. “We're not indestructible, after all."

“You were close to her." It needn't be a question; the answer was in his voice.

Yet another long pause as he continued looking anywhere but at me. “We met a half-dozen years ago, a gathering of the clan. I'm not sure if that whole 'love at first sight' thing is real, but we clicked right off. She was 16 years older than me, and it didn't matter at all. We couldn't figure out a way to be together proper; I was still working on my certification, and we had connections and anchors to the distant cities where we lived. We had even talked of marriage. The clan thought we might have some strong children together."

I couldn't be sure, considering the fur on his face, but I'd have placed a bet that he was blushing. I took the chance and took his forepaw into my hand, giving it a squeeze. I wanted to say something about how sorry I was, but it was difficult to find different ways to say “I'm sorry" with mere words when so many had been said.

“Monte," I said as tenderly as the sound of the engines would let me, “I hope you will accept my sincere good wishes to you and all your clan. I can't attend your ceremony, whatever it is; just know that I would be honored to be there and, if allowed, I'll share it in spirit."

He looked at me warmly, his ears forward, his eyes soft. “Thank you, Jason. Thank you for understanding." The wolf glanced just past me, then back to me, his eyes squinting with a suppressed chuckle. He leaned closer to tell me, “That guy across the aisle probably thinks we're gay, the way you're holding my paw."

I smiled at him. “If I thought it would piss him off enough, I'd kiss you right now."

That made him laugh, which was not only good for him in general but also good timing, as the plane made the first slow dip back toward the ground. The falling sensation is often described as “losing your stomach," and Monte's was as expanded as the rest of him. I squeezed his fingers again for reassurance.

“Completely normal," I said quickly. “Just like that part of a roller coaster ride on your first descent down the hill."

“I hate roller coasters," he said with a snerk.

“Most of the descent is smoother. Look at it this way: We'll be on the ground soon, and the ordeal will be over."

My grin took the sting out of the words, and he smiled back. “Is it too much to hope that you'll be on my return flight?"

We compared details of our travels and, as I'd suspected, we weren't even close in terms of timing.

“I don't want to dissuade you from air travel, but you could probably get back by train or bus."

“I thought about it, believe me. It was easier to book the round-trip ticket." He gave my hand one more squeeze before returning it to me. “I just have to hope that my co-traveler on the next flight will be as nice as you."

“If not, take comfort in it being a relatively short flight."

The landing was routine, and Monte took it very well. As we taxied, I leaned in to whisper a suggestion to him, and he nodded his agreement. The moment that the plane pulled up to the gate, every human on the plane all but jumped into the aisles, trying to be the first out the door. I explained to my companion that it wasn't due to the presence of werewolves; people did that on every flight I'd ever been on. I had suggested to him that, if he weren't in a hurry, we wait for things to thin out first, and that we engage in earnest conversation, the better to ignore any stares, rude comments, or other such annoyances. I managed to tell a joke sufficient to get us both laughing loudly enough to irritate the other fliers; how dare I be friendly to such a creature? I have to admit that I enjoyed that.

I kept a weather eye on the other lycan in the cabin, in case he was having any difficulties. He had remained in his aisle seat, doing his best for the entire flight to avoid hanging out into the aisle while not squishing the person in the window seat. With the Great Exodus beginning, he was trying to negotiate with everyone around him to get his fellow passenger out of his confines. He spoke softly, explaining that he didn't mind waiting, if they would simply let him out long enough to let the other person out. He was a portrait of humility and civility, no matter the grumbling and griping around him, for the others were not merely loath to “take orders from a freak," they also were loath to let even one person out ahead of them. Eventually, sufficient rearranging allowed the werewolf to ladle himself into the window seats, where he turned his attention singularly to the view outside the plane, doing his best to isolate himself from the rest of the passengers.

Monte and I kept ourselves occupied until the cabin was nearly empty. I moved into the aisle as he gathered himself and maneuvered out in front of me (at my insistence). He collected his small carryon — the clothes he was wearing before boarding, which he would have torn apart if he had kept them on while shifting. The airlines were forced to provide “shifting booths" near the gates; werewolves were allowed no other carryon, having to check all baggage. He took my hand once more, then lumbered himself a little further forward. He stopped at the row where the other lycan still sat staring out of his window. Leaning down, he asked, “Are you okay?"

The wolf turned his head slowly toward the sound, dredging up a smile in the process. “You'd think I'd get used to it."

My companion extended a forepaw, introducing himself.

“Wally," the dark brown-furred fellow replied.

Monte turned toward me, waving me closer. “This is Jason. He helped me through this. First flight ever, much less shifted."

Wally took my hand gently into his forepaw. I squeezed rather than shook, and his eyes narrowed very slightly. “You have had some experience with werewolves?"

“I hate prejudices," I smiled gently. “Cheyenne."

“Noble blood. I've got some Algonquin in me, not far up the line."

“No less noble. How's your Latin, Wally?"

“Probably lousy."

“Illigitimi non carborundum."

The wolves both grinned widely, showing some impressive dental architecture that I didn't find the least bit intimidating. “That much, I know. Thanks, Jason."

“My turn, I think." I stepped back to let Wally out of his corner. He and Monte maneuvered themselves toward the exit, and I brought up the rear, perhaps to the relief of the stews, who did their best to avoid my large friends.

Upon reaching the end of the gangway, my furred companions moved quickly to the shifting booths, the faster to stop the gawking stares of others in the boarding area. I ambled my way toward the terminal, making a discreet turn toward an intentionally poorly-marked door. I knocked twice, looking up and to my right, so that the camera could get a good look at me. A buzz signaled that the lock was disengaged, and I pushed the door open. Inside the small vestibule, I checked my concealed weapon and credentials wallet in the through-wall drawer and got myself buzzed into the air marshals office itself. The uniformed woman behind the desk, DORSEY imprinted on her nametag, smiled as she looked up at me.

“Marshal Winter Wolf, I think?"

“Exactly right," I smiled back. “Thanks for remembering."

“I cheated: Your file's on the desk, with your photo in it. Quiet flight?"

“Two shifted lycans, both extremely well-behaved. I was more worried about the other passengers."

She sighed. “Is it racist or cynical to say that it's taken Middle Eastern passengers out of the crosshairs of public disapproval?"

“Cynical, but no more racist than profiling any group simply for being what they are. Forgive my being brusque; the flight was a bit wearing, with all that negativity in the cabin. Do you have my lodging and…?"

Handing me a packet, she brought her smile back. “Car rental, room, and some recommended restaurants. You've got your next flight in about 40 hours. Think you can fill up your time till then?"

I patted my inside coat pocket. “A tablet with access to a lot of good books, and a plan for some extra rest."

“Let me know if you get bored. Some of the guys here have a poker school, and a few of us actually prefer board games. The local watering hole has a couple of rooms for us to use, and they're hosting a trivia challenge tomorrow night."

“I'll keep it in mind. Thanks."

Retrieving my weapon and securing it, credentials in the correct pocket, I let myself estimate how long it would take to collect my small luggage case, find the car in the rental parking lot, and drive to my hotel. I was anxious to get to my room. The one thing I wanted to do now was to shake off the flight, to relax fully, and that would mean shifting. I still feel that's something best done in private.